


American Beauty/American Psycho

by chimericalEscapist (Adasser)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, sort-of hate sex, tags to follow as work progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adasser/pseuds/chimericalEscapist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think I fell in love again.<br/>Maybe I just took too much cough medicine."</p>
<p>A series of EriDave set to the FOB album.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Beauty/American Psycho

**Author's Note:**

> More to come, probably. I'm a sucker for Fall Out Boy and for EriDave, so, y'know.

Your heart hammers loud in your chest cavity as your back slams into the mattress. Dave is above you, a smirk dancing dangerous on his lips, those beautiful bare eyes staring at you like you’re prey. His hands press into your shoulders, firm and hot against your naked skin; they trail up, pulling your arms along with them, until he’s got your wrist pinned above your head. You feel helpless, and it has nothing to do with whether you’re being restrained. He had you hooked, regardless.

He rolls his hips down over you, and a growl tickles the back of your throat. 

His smirk widens, and you can’t stop yourself. You tuck your knees against him and turn, hard, flipping the two of you over. His bony hips bruise your thighs when you land, but it’s just one more throbbing ache between your legs at this point. He’s still smirking, the infuriating bastard, as you lace your fingers together and lean down, face-to-face. 

“What are you going to do?” he says, his voice a hot murmur against your cheek. “Hurt me?” 

You squeeze your fingers tight, all but crushing his hand. He’s silent, but you see him bite the inside of his own cheek, and the knowledge has you rolling your hips down over him, a mockery of how he teased you earlier. 

Your bulge and his cock are stiff, his thicker and shorter, yours less fleshy but longer. You glance up to see him craning his own neck to look at the two of you pressed against each other. Leaning down, you bar one arm over both of his; with your free hand, you grab his chin and force him to meet your eyes. 

“W-what,” you say, voice low, “You w-want hurt?” 

You don’t let him answer. You spit in your hand, wet your bulge, and line up. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop you until you’re halfway inside him, fighting the instinct to bury yourself, to fuck him raw, until he bleeds, until he’s begging you to stop, but you catch his eyes and you still your hips. 

“Tell me how-w much you like that,” you order him. You won’t break role now—hell, he would probably kill you if you did—but you can’t let yourself break him, either. 

“Fuck,” he groans, and your bulge pulses, hard. “I love it,” he says, “I love the way you hurt me, baby.” 

That’s enough for you, and your hips snap forward hard enough that his eyes roll back. Your hand fists his hair and presses his head into the bead, angled to see you. 

“Look at me, I w-want to w-watch you.” 

His fingers are clenching and un-clenching, and his ass is so tight around you you’re going dizzy. But he’s staring at you, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted. 

He doesn’t even need you to touch him. He’s already squirming, trembling, too proud to admit that you’ve got him coming undone but too far gone to hold it together. Your grip on his hair tightens—he winces—as you thrust harder, filling him to the brim each time before pulling almost entirely out again. The only noises escaping his throat are whimpers, almost sobs. 

You press your lips together, rough and hurried, breathing him in. He’s shaking so hard you have to press the length of your body into him to keep control of your thrusts. 

His quaking comes to a peak, and he’s gripping you like a vice; you can’t help yourself as you cum, hard, inside him. You’re still cumming when you slide out, knowing that he won’t be able to hold all of your load. He groans again and strains against the hand in his hair to watch the last bit of fluid dripping from bulge and onto his thighs and stomach, mixing with his own cum. 

You’re tempted to make him taste it, but you think he might enjoy it too much. 

You release him, lean over the bed, grab his shirt. You throw it into the mess you both made, and he grunts in acknowledgment, still lying boneless in the middle. 

You let yourself fall next to him, eyes raking over his body. 

“Couldn’t keep your hands off me,” he says smugly a minute later. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re irresistible, w-whatev-ver,” you say, rolling your eyes. You climb out of bed and pull your clothes back on, but you can’t help but shoot him a smug look of your own. “Hav-ve fun cleanin’ up.” 


End file.
